


Spin the Butterbeer

by Ariel_Riddle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Brooding Harry, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Harmony & Co, Mixing Wizarding Spirits with Muggle Games, Pining, Pining Hermione, Sexual Tension, halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Riddle/pseuds/Ariel_Riddle
Summary: She goes quite still, aware of every movement, of every breath. Everything hangs in the air for one soul-shattering second.She knows what will happen if she moves. She craves it. She fears it.





	Spin the Butterbeer

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HalloweenHarmonyComp2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HalloweenHarmonyComp2018) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> **Harry and Hermione are good sports while playing a drinking game at a Halloween party, but when their seemingly innocent kiss awakens something more, how will they deal with the new emotions they feel?**
> 
> _Huge thanks to my brilliant alpha/beta Maloreiy for totally coming through to help me with this story, even when I gave it to her at the last possible minute, and for helping me cut it down to size. You’re the bee’s knees! Thank you to WaterflowerWeasley for the lovely banners C:_

* * *

The bottle gleams iridescent in the scant light of the chandelier.

Hermione watches it spin, tracing the glass of her own bottle with an errant finger. In an uncharacteristic turn of events, she has very little interest in her surroundings.

Dazzling costumes make it difficult to decipher which of her friends are which. A mouse and vampire snog each other senseless on the couch directly in front of her―Pansy and Neville.

Neville, Dean, and Ronald came as vampires, while Pansy and her Slytherin girlfriends came as sexified versions of various animals—an excuse to wear a tail, ears and little clothing, no doubt.

The music blares louder and she can hardly focus on the voices of her friends.

She'll have a headache in the morning. She'll have a headache _and_ one hell of a mess to clean up at Grimmauld Place before she heads back to her residency at St Mungos while Harry heads back to Quidditch training.

She wonders bitterly which _lucky witch_ of the current assembly will be invited to his bed for the evening. Lavender and Ginny look especially tarted up. She takes a deep, long swig of her drink, tipping the bottle back, before squinting to see them better.

What are they supposed to be anyway?

Some variation of a school girl and zombie, she gusses.

Malfoy and Zabini appear captivated by the duo from her vantage point above them. She thinks she picks up on a plot to jinx their spin, but she can't be sure, and again she doesn't care—she's not really listening.

Her gaze wanders to Harry who sits on her left with Seamus an unwanted barrier between them.

Harry looks positively regal in his Grecian robes, complete with the golden leaf that hooks at his shoulder. He can certainly pass for an emperor in her mind. He even dons a traditional wreath in his hair—her own suggestion—and it draws her attention to those raven black locks she longs to tangle her fingers in. His jaw and his cheeks cut a sharp line, reminding her of how long it's been since their time on the run.

It's been three years now, and they're no longer children. Harry, for his part, is every inch a man, and she's hard-pressed to forget. There's a faint hint of a 5 o'clock shadow, and it hits her that it's been three months since she's seen him last. Yes, he's been back for the week and they've planned this Halloween party, but his last venture on the road has proven to be their longest separation yet.

She wonders if he's noticed.

She's only his roommate after all.

Seamus mistakes her lingering stare and his face transforms to one of keen interest. He shoots her a saucy wink. She responds with a scathing glare and his smile drops.

They all think her a shrew, and she doesn't blame them. She's all but a hermit when Harry is away.

Vaguely, she registers Ron take off towards the closet with Luna in tow. The blonde is wearing a sparkling costume in varying hues of grey. Hermione hadn't been able to figure it out until Luna had politely informed her it was her rendition of a Wrackspurt, _of course._

On the ground by her feet, Malfoy rests his head back on her legs and she briefly considers kicking him away. To her right, Parvati has fallen asleep on her shoulder. and Hermione has long since been effectively squished—walled in on every side. In the corner of her vision, Harry catches her expression and laughs. The man knows her so well—he knows when she's irritated, but too backed into a corner and bound by etiquette to say anything.

Letting out a large exhale through her nose, she pulls her legs up to tuck beneath her golden skirt, taking sadistic pleasure when the ferret lets out a grunt as his head hits the couch with a satisfying thud. His accusatory eyes land on her, but they go wide when they see just whose legs he's resting on. She arches her brow and gives him the best glower she can muster. Harry laughs louder, and this time Zabini joins him. She rolls her eyes.

When she notices Zabini drink out of a silver flask before lifting it in the air in offer, she reaches down and snatches it from his grasp before the boys can call dibs. She doesn't usually imbibe the harder stuff, but finds she's just not on the same level as her carefree friends. Perhaps that's what's missing.

"Careful, Granger," Zabini warns her, "that's premium Firewhisky, that is."

Hermione pointedly ignores him and takes a long gulp.

"Whoa, take it easy, Granger," Malfoy jumps in, making to grab the flask from her. "You're not used to _this_ stuff."

"Sod off," she hisses back, and that's about all she can say because the whisky burns her throat and dulls her senses. It's almost enough, but not quite. She let's Malfoy take the drink.

"I hope you aren't insinuating your tastes are more refined than Hermione's?" Harry asks Malfoy with a lopsided smirk. There's a hardness in his eyes, though, that suggests he isn't engaging in their usual back and forth banter.

The two exchange a look and Hermione shifts uncomfortably. She knows they have become close, despite their history. She doesn't want to be the cause of strife between that sort of miraculous progress. Fortunately, Zabini comes to her rescue.

"Of course he's _not_." Zabini slaps Malfoy on the chest. "He's just looking out for _your girl_."

Hermione blushes at the reference, and it's not at all thanks to the liquor. Harry makes a gesture for the flask, and Malfoy passes it to him without even stopping to take a drink himself. She blushes harder when she realizes Harry doesn't correct Zabini.

Harry wraps his lips around the opening and tips the flask back. Her eyes are drawn to his Adam's apple as it bobs in his throat while he takes a deep drink. When he puts it down, his eyes snap to hers, as if he can feel her watching him, and he takes one last cursory lick around the edge.

The look is almost _taunting._ All she can think is how she'd just been sucking greedily out of that flask not seconds before. Emerald green has her gaze helplessly tangled, and for one mad second she feels lost.

Frazzled, she looks away, cursing her mind and the wicked places it insists on bringing her to.

It doesn't surprise her that people make assumptions about the two of them. Even Ginny had once confessed, shortly after she and Harry had ended things, that she'd once believed there'd been something between them.

Sweet Morgana, they bloody well _live together_.

A cold, bitter, emptiness sweeps over her mind that not even the warmth of the Firewhisky can assuage. She feels sick… sick with _longing._ A side effect from desiring the impossible.

She doesn't know when her feelings for her friend transitioned from friendship to romantic interest and then again to pure, unadulterated love, but she _can_ peg when she'd first been able to stop denying that there was nothing there at all.

It had been on the run, of course. The horcrux, which had spent many hours around her neck and in close quarters to her heart, had whispered many deceptive things. It masterfully wove its manipulation and lies, but one of its greatest strengths was shining a light on the _truth_.

Yes, as much as she had initially beat herself up for her less-than-innocent feelings for her best friend, she can hardly deny her feelings anymore.

So she lets them gnaw at her instead.

There's nothing she can _do_ about them _._ Harry doesn't see her that way. The horcrux had told her that too. And she knows it's true.

She's seen the slew of women that fawn over him. He's a Quidditch star and the wizard who defeated Voldemort. Featured on Witch Weekly ten times over, he's always in the gossip columns of the Prophet, everyone wondering who his latest flame is.

He's never cast any of that type of attention her way, and she tells herself she doesn't want him to. Why ruin a perfectly good friendship? She'd rather have his respect and his intellect and his proximity than just the memory of a single night.

A single, _perfect night_ , no doubt.

The closet door opens with a bang, and Hermione jolts up straighter as Ron and Luna stumble out. Dean had to go and summon them, apparently. Her eyes stray to Ron and his carefree face. His lips are swollen red and there's mirth in his eyes.

She remembers a time shortly after their break-up. Ron had made a flippant remark, admitting that he'd once thought she and Harry a better suited match than the two of them. He'd said he'd even told Harry so, but Harry had dismissed the notion, saying he'd always seen Hermione as more like family.

It had been _heartbreaking_ then _._

It still is now.

Hermione doesn't want to think about it. Harry's told her he loves her many times, but it's not the same sort of love she harbors for him.

She knows she should be grateful for what she _does_ have. To be able to live together like this, to be here waiting when he comes home from training and touring. To treat his injuries, make meals together, see movies together, share a quiet glass of wine whilst she reads and he brews.

It may not be the same level of intimacy she fantasizes about, but it's a slice of heaven nonetheless. They do everything together—even plan parties together, and barring recent instances of her being a less than gracious host, this bash seems to be a hit in the making.

It's selfish to want more, and she knows it. She tucks away her love for Harry where she always has, deep in the most secret part of her heart.

Harry is looking at her with concerned eyes and she paints a smile on her face just for him. His expression transitions to one of relief and he smiles back. She keeps smiling and resolves to be a better hostess, laughing at something Lavender says.

The conversation perks up below her and she's reminded of Zabini and Malfoy's plan to jinx the bottle spin in their favor when their turn is due. She doesn't worry herself over it, Dean's anti-hexing charms are strong. If anything, the idea draws a genuine laugh bubbling from her throat. Allowing them to meddle and by some miracle _be successful_ makes her feel like Tuck from _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ True mirth crawls across her face and chases the sadness away.

She can do this.

Tomorrow she will clean up the mess from the party and help wayward guests get home. She'll listen like a good friend when Harry regales her of tales from the night before and of his newest conquest. She'll continue to be the rock he leans on, and cross her fingers that it stays this way for as long as possible. For as soon as Harry decides to settle, she can no longer have this life with him, and then she'll know true sadness.

* * *

 

Harry can't tear his eyes from her.

He's been waiting half the damn night for this.

And the other half just waiting for everyone to be loosened up enough to welcome the idea. Daphne had said it sounded terribly Muggle, but Pansy and Tracey had talked her into it. Parvati and Cormac are already passed out, and Neville and Pansy are also out for the count, so he can't risk losing anyone else. He's plotted too carefully, and _it's finally his turn!_

She's a vision. The other witches might be more scantily clad, sure, but his eyes are only for her. The sensual way in which her golden dress clings to her curves and falls just above her knees. The beaded collar she wears hiding the ample cleavage he knows is there—he knows because he'd helped her secure the jewelry around her neck earlier in the evening. She doesn't wear a wig, only a chain around her head with a gem dripping down her forehead. The liner around her eyes highlights the honey brown orbs that haunt his every waking thought—and his dreaming ones too. In short, she looks stunning. More than a few wizards cast her a look, and his jealousy flares.

He looks away, just because he doesn't want to be caught _staring_ —he doesn't want to be caught before he's seen his plan through.

It's been three years.

Three years dwelling together in the same home. At first, he'd been frustrated and confused, unable to identify the source of his troubling feelings. His emotions had been in such utter turmoil after the war, he'd had no choice but to call things off with Ginny—and rather abruptly too, he still felt badly about it.

She had encouraged him to do something for himself, for once, so he'd changed his plans to become an Auror and instead accepted an offer from the Appleby Arrows.

Then he'd thrown himself into several trivial and meaningless dalliances in an effort to douse the flame he felt for the one he shouldn't, but none of it had worked.

Nothing measures up.

What he feels is real and it's genuine and it's been there all along. There's no running from it. Everything else loses its color and shine and vibrancy in the face of _her_ radiance.

As of late, he's given up pursuing other witches. He remembers bragging about some fictitious night in Italy just to gauge a reaction from her, see if there's any interest in those captivating brown eyes he so cherishes, but as always she's her typical helpful and doting self—the very best of friends a bloke could hope for.

Much better than he deserves, really. She listens and comforts and consoles, but there's no hint of any of the emotions he's hoping to see—irritation, perhaps possessive jealousy. Envy, even. That's the spectrum of emotions _he_ would feel if she ever up and informs him she's started dating.

Dean places the bottle and tests the anti-jinx spell. He's supposed to be the best up-and-coming Auror the Ministry has, so everyone trusts his spellwork. Satisfied, he tucks his wand away and motions to Harry.

Harry flashes a grin and steps up to the center of the room. All around the perimeter, people are dancing, but he only distantly notices their presence, like white noise in the background. The tempo of the music picks up, paling in comparison to the rapid beat of his heart.

He can't resist scanning the couch to find her, and sees her biting her lip anxiously, her gaze wandering over the possible matches in a calculating manner. He doesn't know whether or not to be comforted by her apparent interest or if it's just Hermione being Hermione—always looking out for him, having his back, getting him out of binds—being the only person consistently there for him.

It's more than likely the latter.

He thinks a spell in his mind and feels a slight tug on his magic.

He gives the bottle a spin before whirling away and walking to his seat. He feels like an actor in one of those Muggle films that doesn't bother to look back at the explosion he's caused behind him.

When he reaches the couch, he hears gasps and his heart gives a sudden lurch in his chest. He can sense Hermione stiffen, even with an inebriated Seamus separating them. He turns and takes a seat, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, looking to all the world careless and indifferent. When he looks up, it's difficult _not_ to display the triumph he feels.

"Oh," he says with faux surprise, molding his face into one of practiced pleasantness. Then he turns his head and offers Hermione his most charming grin. He extends his hand in offering. "Guess it's you and me, 'Mione."

* * *

She wants to scream.

The universe is being unnecessarily cruel.

She sits frozen in shock with too many pairs of eyes zooming in on her.

"Come on, Hermione," Lavender says with only a slight slur, to her credit, "be a good sport. You can't back out now, even if it is Harry." She presses a hand to her mouth and giggles. The words 'and he's basically like your brother' are left unsaid, but hang in the air just the same.

Hermione stares at Harry's offered hand dubiously and bites her lip.

"It could be worse," Ginny adds, her expression playful, "you could have got a Slytherin, like the Ferret."

Malfoy shoots her a withering glare.

"Maybe you'll have a Slytherin of your own to contend with," Blaise tells her cryptically.

Ginny wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"Aw, _Hermione_ ," Harry says, and is it just her or does his voice sound much lower? Her name on his lips does nothing to quell the butterflies hammering against her ribs. "Don't leave me hanging." There's a challenge in his startling green eyes that Hermione doesn't quite feel up to answering.

She makes a valiant effort to find her voice before she makes a complete fool of herself. "Yes, right."

She gently pushes Pravati off and arranges her on the couch. She then navigates the tricky maze that is Zabini and Malfoy laid out by her feet, and turns to accept Harry's hand.

Her skin tingles where it touches his and he grabs hold of her tighter, pulling her with him. Adrenaline pounds at her temples and she can hardly think. Their friends make catcalls and whistle as he pulls her away, and she forces a laugh that may be too high-pitched to sound natural.

She trudges after him on wobbly legs, eyes glued to the ground as her trepidation steadily rises. Dear Merlin, how is this happening? She chances a glance up as they turn and is startled to see him smirking softly—eyes trained ahead—as he confidently opens the door, gesturing.

"After you."

Flustered, she grabs her skirts and walks through, trying not to shiver as she brushes against his chest. She'd thought the whole thing utterly childish only moments before. They were well out of their teens and certainly didn't require a silly game for a reason to kiss. This is the stuff they'd be doing back in their common rooms at Hogwarts. Now she can find nothing humorous about the situation, and the stakes seemed to have escalated incredibly high.

The door closes with a click, and she can barely make out the lines of his face through the scant light coming through the crack. She's grateful the darkness will at least shroud the fierce blush from her face.

She packs her veins full of icy resolve, determined to give him a sporting peck and be done with it. They'll laugh it off and make some joke about what a mess of a pair they'd make.

Her heart's not made of steel, but she'll pretend just the same. She simply can't let him know there's even a hint of true longing hidden in her heart. Such a discovery would ruin everything. She needs to be brave and shoulder through it.

Harry reaches out to cup her face and she lets out an embarrassing gasp.

All those resolutions crumble in the face of Harry's daring.

"What's wrong?" He pulls his hand away, and she resists the terrible urge to beg for it back. "It's just a little kiss."

She nods too quickly and the chain on her head jingles. "No, I know."

"You don't want to?" he inquires.

She thinks he's frowning, but it's hard to tell. With so little light and his face concealed in shadows, his features are somehow even more defined—even more decadently chiseled—and there's something decidedly dark about him.

"I do," she assures him, and then swallowing her nervousness, she takes a step forward, closing the gap between. She's not a silly school girl, for Circe's sake. She's a woman in the second year of her residency at a prestigious wizarding institution, and she'd better start acting like it. "An innocent kiss between friends."

Harry nods and his fingers trace up her neck to cup her cheek again. He tilts her jaw and slowly leans down to brush his lips against hers—so softly it's like a mere whisper.

Her heart stutters as his warm and powerful aura seems to fill the room, He does it once, twice, and then he lingers on the third time. Hermione's heart is beating erratically as the faint scent of his cologne wafts over her. It's almost drugging in its ability to lull her senseless. Her hands lie limply by her side and she wishes badly to touch him but that somehow seems forbidden—a line she can't cross.

She wonders if he'll pull away. They have been good sports, after all. They've technically kissed. He can pull away now.

A second passes.

He pulls away just slightly and she starts to feel despondent. She wonders if she can _taste him_ on her lips. She doubts it.

His left hand comes up to rest on the wall by her face, caging her in, and for some reason, the simple action causes heat to flare sharply in her abdomen. It's almost possessive.

Her legs twist inside her dress, and her hands itch to touch him even more. . . _anywhere._ Perhaps they aren't finished after all. She's delighted by the notion there'll be more.

When he leans back down and slants his mouth over hers, she feels like she's been Confunded. Certainly, she must have been, because this time she lets out a pleased sound and kisses him back, her own lips moving sinuously with his.

He steps closer and now her hands are trapped between their bodies. The hand cupping her face creeps behind her neck and finds the base of her hair.

It's when she feels the first brush of his tongue that her control shatters and her battle with her warring feelings flies out the window. Her desire for him is too strong to ignore. The temptation too alluring. She drags her hands up his chest to wind around his neck and pull him closer. She deepens the kiss, lips moving against his harder. Her sense of awareness is triggered by the sweet taste of the forbidden. An insatiable craving for more bubbles inside her chest, as need pools between her legs.

He licks her again, as if coaxing her mouth to open for him, and she does. How can she not? He tastes delicious and she wants to learn his flavor—learn and commit it to memory. Her tongue twines with his and his fingers flex through her hair, scraping against her scalp.

She makes an odd keening noise that's muffled by their kiss. She'd be mortified if she isn't so thrown by what's happening.

His left hand sweeps her side and catches her breast before descending to her hip. She arches into him—she can't help it. It's as if a dam has broke and her carefully guarded emotions are free to rule her. She tangles her fingers in his hair like she's been longing to do, and he breaks their kiss with a groan that causes her desire to spike.

"Hermione," he breathes against the sensitive line between her ear and her jaw. He licks a line down her neck and now both of his hands travel the same trail—sweeping down and then up—igniting fire in their path. They move up the length of her torso and come tantalizingly close to touching her breasts. Hermione doesn't speak, afraid she'll break whatever spell this must be, for surely he can't think this a normal level of intimacy between friends.

But then his mouth glances across her earlobe and she lets out a sharp moan, _not_ muffled this time.

"You like that." His voice is a husky purr that only fans the fire.

She whips her head to the side and she can feel him smiling against her neck, nuzzling her, and it feels like he's the one learning her. Her befuddled mind is hard-pressed to come up with coherent thoughts, especially when his hands sweep up her bare thighs, bunching the fabric of her dress at her hips and causing her legs to twist of their own volition.

He nudges a knee between her own, but she doesn't budge. He lets out a sigh of frustration. His lips are set in a feral line and his eyes are _hungry._

Somehow, though, when he leans down to kiss her again, his touch is gentle and his lips move against hers tenderly.

That's ultimately why she decides to submit. She presses her back against the wall and steps apart, while pulling him forward all in one motion.

That's when she feels it—the evidence of his arousal. The hot, hard length of it presses against her stomach and they both let out a sharp intake of air. She goes quite still, aware of every movement, of every breath. Everything hangs in the air for one soul-shattering second.

She knows what will happen if she moves. She craves it. She fears it.

His body is rigidly still against her, aside from his head buried in the crook of her neck. He takes a deep inhale and her eyes flutter shut as his breath fans her skin.

She knows she should step away. Now's the time, but she can't bring herself to do it. She's frozen still in titillating anticipation, and there's an insistent pounding inside her head.

It doesn't stop, and as she considers it, she thinks it sounds like _knocking._

Realization coming too late, the door bursts open and their small sanctuary is invaded by unwelcome light.

* * *

"Oi, you two done in there?"

Harry feels like he might murder Ron and Dean and their ridiculous smiling faces as they peek around the door.

He steps away from Hermione so quick she sways against the wall, her legs trembling. Harry instinctively takes a step back to assist her, but she recovers and straightens, pulling down her dress, her expression one of such abject mortification it twists at his heart.

"Didn't think you two would go over the limit," Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "What'd you get up to in here?"

"Nothing," Hermione sputters, her face flaming crimson. She reaches a hand up to correct the crooked chain in her hair. "Just a harmless peck."

Harry's aching hard-on begs to differ. He arranges his white robes in a more strategic position and glowers at his so-called friends.

"Yeah," Ron crosses his arms and raises a brow, eyeing their disheveled appearance pointedly. "Looks rather more like you were sucking face, to me."

Hermione scoffs and manages to look offended. "Honestly, Ronald," she scolds, "always so bloody crass."

With that, she flounces off, looking anywhere but at Harry. For one mad moment, he considers chasing her, but shoves the notion away in favor of regrouping. He notices she makes a beeline for the punch bowl, but after that he loses her.

Harry sits with his friends and attempts to at least appear like he's listening. Inwardly, he's fuming. Where has she got off to? Does she think she can simply run away from him?

He adjusts his wreath only just remembering it's misplaced. He can still feel phantom fingers tugging at his hair, the ghost of her lips on his own. Taking a sip of a new drink, he stops to rub his lips. It feels like she's left her mark… e _verywhere_.

Luna's explaining to a thoroughly enamoured Ron that no, her Wrackspurt costume is not true to size, of course not, and Harry chuckles despite himself. His eyes sweep the room and he starts to wonder if he's seeing things when he finds Blaise and Ginny seated in the far corner rather closely, their hands held, and appearing deep in intimate conversation. He's partially happy, partially irritated by the discovery.

Apparently the Halloween gathering is proving beneficial to _some people_.

How can Hermione have fled from him like that?

What happened to the courageous and bold Gryffindor who'd captivated his heart? He vows to find her yet.

* * *

Hermione steps out of the hot shower and feels thoroughly sorry for herself.

She dries off before shrugging into one of Harry's old Quidditch jerseys from last season. She likes to think it still smells like him, even though she's since washed it several times over. Still, it's comfy and it does remind her of him when he's away.

The music downstairs has finally faded and now it's stopped completely indicating the party is blessedly over. Thank Merlin for that. The wretched liner had smeared down her face in a never-ending sea of black. Even now after all that scrubbing, some remains—a lingering reminder of this dreadful night.

Well, not all dreadful, she supposes.

No, there had been a moment in which she'd felt true joy—true fulfillment, true happiness—for a time. Every other concern had just fallen to the wayside in the face of such divine bliss. Of course, that particular moment is also the source of the tumultuous emotions that rage like a tempest.

Toweling her hair dry, she goes into her room and turns to lay the damp material on the chair. She nearly screams when she sees _him_ lying on her bed, just as bold as brass and wearing nothing but his boxers. She absently notices that the wreath still adorns his hair.

He has the audacity to grin at her, as if he finds her amusing. Some sane part of her cauctions her to approach the situation calmly—such situations have been perfectly normal for the two roommates—but Hermione's hardly of a mind to listen.

"What are you doing here?!"

Harry's smile drops as he takes in her aghast expression. All amusement has drained from his eyes. He looks away and shifts from his relaxed position.

She thinks he will take the hint and leave, something he's always done before when she's pushed him away, but then his fists clench, and she sees his resolve when his green eyes snap open.

He strides across the room and reaches for her, eyes several shades darker than before.

When their skin connects, she's a cross between dazed, elated, and terrified. Her stomach is in knots.

"Come here," he bids, leading her with him.

She stumbles, and she's aware of his hand on her hip steadying her. His touch is startlingly sensual.

"You can't have thought you'd get away with running away from me like that."

He pulls her down beside him, and her mind buzzes. It often does when she finds herself the center of his attention, but this time she's unable to explain away the possessive edge to his words.

This can't happen. Not again. Not in her room—where it's too _easy_ to give in. Not before they have a conversation, and she at least has a chance to ascertain his true feelings.

But it _is_ happening.

Her body welcomes the return of his kiss, reveling in the familiarity of his lips. Instinctively, her eyes press blissfully shut. This is a flavor she knows and has quickly come to crave. Her bones melt and she's putty in the arms that wrap around her.

His lips part and his tongue probes—gentle but insistent. A noise bursts from her throat, and he deepens the kiss, leaving no room for thinking as his tongue chases it away.

Many times she's wondered how kissing him would be, and now her curiosity has been satiated. The taste of him is even sweeter than her forbidden fantasies. There's no point in denying it—he's her undoing—and his kiss is too addictive to possibly be good for her.

"Stop overthinking this," he breaks away to tell her.

She knows he's frustrated—she isn't kissing him like before. That sort of mindless behavior is what she's trying to avoid.

"Hermione Granger is allowed to have fun every once in a while."

The offer _is_ tempting. It would be so easy just to shut it all off _._ For so long she's relied on her wit and intellect. Very seldom does she let her heart rule her. She's tired of battling the dark entity that is her crumbling willpower.

He leans down to capture her lips again, but through the haze she registers the gravity of the situation. She recalls his prior conquests.

A fresh wave of jealousy engulfs her at the painful reminder, and it's like being hit with an _Rennervate_.

It can't happen. She can't ruin it. She can't endanger what they've built. She'll do anything for Harry, but only so long as she gets to keep him, even if that means she only gets to settle for him in a friend capacity.

He senses her unease and pulls away. "What's wrong?"

When she ventures to meet his piercing gaze, she's startled by the depth of concern she finds there. A hopeless laugh builds in her throat and the tentative smile she manages probably appears slightly deranged. She wants to tell him everything. She wants to tell him how she worries herself silly when he's gone, how she becomes a shell of herself and simply goes through the motions from day to day.

She wants to tell him how much she _really_ cares.

She doesn't.

"What's wrong with this," he expounds, gesturing between them, "what's wrong with _us_?"

She shakes her head. "You don't understand. This isn't just something. . .meaningless. . .to me, Harry."

She no longer bothers concealing her true feelings from her eyes, and he appears jarred when he notices.

"I'm not a conquest." She feels her cheeks burn, but this time from anger. "I don't want to be just another notch in your broomstick."

The harsh finality of her words ring in the air, and it's too much to stay seated. She quickly draws herself up and turns her back on him, congratulating herself for at least making an attempt to convey her feelings and stand up for herself. She makes determined strides to the door—counting her steps in order to stay focused—when his words slice through the air.

"Come back here."

She freezes as the dark heat of his command wraps around her legs and whispers up her spine.

"Stop running from me."

Sharp, hot longing lances through her, and desire ignites her veins. It's a challenge the likes of which she isn't used to from love interests. He has no qualms challenging her, and she can't help but rise to the occasion.

Spurred by her ire, she turns around with every intention to give the man a good tongue-lashing for daring to tell her what to do. She wants to tell him exactly where he can put his demands _._ But her words are lost when she takes in the sight of him.

Harry's angry.

His body is thrumming with a myriad of emotions she's hard-pressed to distinguish. It's as if she's said something personally offensive, though she can't wrack her brain as to what. His eyes are hooded with barely suppressed rage. His feral movements, as he straightens to his feet, give her a predator awareness that puts her on edge.

This is the man who once slayed Voldemort.

Sometimes she forgets. It's an easy thing to do with how down-to-earth and charming he can be. But now with mind-shattering revelation, she remembers. She resists the urge to flee, even as she feels the flare of his powerful magic.

"You don't get to just say your peace and go," Harry tells her, tilting his head and letting his stare rake over her. She's reminded that she's dressed only in his Quidditch jersey. Her skin heats when she notes the approval in his eyes. "It might not occur to that brilliant mind of yours, but maybe I feel that way too."

A derisive snicker issues from her throat. "Doubtful," she scoffs, and she's aware her cool, flippant response only seems to fan his rage. "You've paraded your relationships around me for years. I've sat through it all while you've ranted about girl after girl, no matter how much it grated me that you. . .that you could never—"

She stifles a choke and her hands fly to her face, horrified to find tears have sprung to her eyes. She turns away and brings her gaze determinedly to the door, strengthening her resolve.

"Anyway," she dismisses, "you can't know what a mess I am when you're gone. Or how excited I am for you to return. Our friendship means more to me than some alcohol-induced one-off at a Halloween party." She's satisfied to note the cool, detachment in her voice. Perhaps it's not too late to salvage this.

But then her satisfaction evaporates as she feels him step up behind her.

"What were you going to say," he asks.

His tone is quiet, but there's a sinister edge to his words, like a hunter who's caught scent of his prey.

"You said it grated you." His breath stirs the nape of her neck and the sensation’s tantalizing.

She shivers.

"That you could never. . ."

Hands curls around the expanse of her waist and her eyes drop from the door, giving up her escape. She wants to melt against him. The savage urge to give into the man behind her is overpowering.

"Never what, Hermione?"

If he invades her space an inch more, she's done for—her valiant struggle with her willpower is nearly disintegrated. It's too much to keep fighting against her body's relentless betrayal against her judgment. Her pulse is pounding too loudly at her temples to hear what her heart is saying.

"No," she shakes her head weakly, refusing to answer.

His magic gives a sudden pulse and she feels it mingle with hers. The feeling makes her toes curl and she lets out a sharp breath.

"Too important," she protests hoarsely, trying her damndest not to turn around, because if she does, she's _gone_. "You're too important."

Her desire is so staggeringly strong that for one, mad moment she can't think what could be so wrong with submitting to one, lustful night with the object of her affections. The temptation is great and her body is _singing_ for him, encouraged by the feel of his coaxing fingers rubbing the skin of her thighs through the fabric of the jersey. She shakes her head again, as if to dispel the fuzziness from her mind. "I don't want to ruin it," she finishes lamely, because if she gives in, then what?

Muscles tense. Poised to flee, Harry tightens his hold on her. "Stop running." His command gnaws at her belly. "Finish what you were going to say. _Tell me_."

His presence consumes her. She feels caught and disturbingly content to be captured. _Anything for Harry._ His body thrums and she gets the sense that he—like her—is on the cusp.

She licks her lips and a fire lights in her eyes. "That you can never feel for me the way I feel for you."

His breath halts and several seconds tick by.

She's strung so tight, she feels like she might snap.

When he releases his breath, it fans across her neck, placing her nerves in a crazed frenzy. "It always pained me," he confesses, and Hermione strains to hear, "to see you and Ron together. It was a hopeless feeling."

The confession startles her, and she's not sure she believes it.

"The things I told you, about the other girls. . .I wanted to see if you cared. . . _beyond_ the scope of a friend."

Her breath hitches and hope sparks alive in her chest.

"The truth is, you aren't the only one." His words seize her heart and wrap it in a vice-like grip. "I've felt the same way for _a long_ time."

The rush of desire is immediate and she wants desperately to believe him.

"What do you want?" She's afraid of the answer.

"Turn around," he purrs, nose nudging the hollow of her neck. "I want you to really kiss me. . .like before."

His words stir a deep-seated longing in her heart. A raging tornado storms through her. A desire for the pure pleasure of being devoured by this man takes over.

_Bugger it._

Gathering her courage, she turns in his arms and is caught off guard by the yearning she sees in his emerald eyes. Her hands crawl up his chest and rest around his neck. She gasps as she feels his erection—hot and aching—pressed against her.

"Let me show you how much you mean to me," he whispers.

Why the statement sounds so deliciously sinful, she doesn't know, but as she stretches up on her tiptoes to kiss him like she means it—kiss him with everything she has—there's no longer any doubt.

When he sweeps her up in his arms all without breaking their kiss, she doesn't hesitate to wrap her legs around his waist as he carries them to her bed. His jersey rides up her thighs and his boxers leave little to the imagination, but they still wear too much clothing, so she tells him so.

The dark, inflection of his laugh seems to reverberate through the pulse between her legs, and she squeezes him, catching her breath on a sharp moan. His laughter fades, and then he's lying her on the bed with purpose, stretching her out before him and raking his eyes over her form.

He leans down to whisper in her ear, "You've always been the girl for me." His fingers find the hem of the shirt and he tugs it up, tangling it somewhere around her torso. He kisses her bare stomach as his hands wander her curves. Her eyes flutter shut once his fingers find that sweet spot between her legs. She clamps her legs against his hand in an effort to trap him there.

She's strung tighter than ever and her need is blinding. Distracted by the sensations she's feeling, she's not prepared for the feel of his tongue.

Her body rears up and he presses her down. She impatiently yanks her shirt the rest of the way off, too mindless to care if she should be ashamed of the way she looks. The things he does with his tongue feel divine. Each stroke is mind-altering, and she's all too soon coaxed skillfully to the edge of oblivion. He crawls up her body and peppers her neck with kisses.

"It's always been you." His voice is husky as his fingers work, and she's sure this is heaven. "I want you." There's a possessive edge to his voice that thrills her in the most primitive of ways. "My girl."

She shatters.

He guides her through, all the while whispering words of encouragement and telling her how beautiful she is between placing hot kisses on her neck. She rides the waves of rhapsody until she's spent, only then registering just how hard he is against her. She turns her head only to catch him admiring her body, his gaze scorching, and she doesn't feel lacking under such a gaze.

Body still thrumming from the throes of passion, she feels like a vixen.

Emboldened, she reaches for him and he groans. His face contorts in pleasure, and his mouth falls slack. She eyes his every movement, more attuned than she's ever been in her studies. Later she'll blame the whisky, but right now she only wants to learn what he likes. His hand snaps to her wrist with the sharp reflexes of a Seeker, and now that scorching gaze is clashing with hers.

He pulls her up and she straddles him.

"Slowly," he purrs, eyelids drooping, and just like that the pulse between her legs is alive again. "I want to take it slowly with you. You mean more to me than anyone else in the world."

She wants to believe him. His hands fall on her hips and she lowers against him. She feels him brush against her entrance and a gasp wrenches itself from her throat. "Harry," she breathes, carding the fingers of one hand in his hair while using her other to steady herself. Her desire is pounding now.

"Enough teasing." The hoarse words are a cross between a command and downright begging. She can tell he's at his limit.

She uses his shoulder for leverage and lowers herself until she's seated fully. Her muscles give an involuntary clench at the feel of being so filled.

He grits his teeth and throws his head against the pillows, fingers digging into her hips. Fascinated, she leans forward and starts to move.

She's never seen him so unguarded. She works her hips and he times his upward strokes to meet her. The notion of going slowly is soon forgotten. He's on the cusp of breaking and she's determined to bring him there. She squeezes on every downward motion and commits his expression to memory.

* * *

When his eyes open, he finds her watching him.

Has she always been here—this stunning woman? There's a mixture of desire, longing, and possessiveness burning in her eyes that Harry finds heady. Her warm heat engulfs him and he lets out a strangled groan. Her eyes hood and he wonders how it's possible this goddess has chosen him. Her beguiling scent is maddening, spurring on a desperate craving that conflicts with the caution he knows he should have.

He doesn't want to scare her away. He must go slowly, as he's vowed to. But he can still taste her on his mouth, and her intrinsic flavor drugs him senseless.

She moves faster, and he can't help but join her. Her face twists in pleasure, and he suddenly wishes for nothing more than to see her break again, _like this_. His fingers find the juncture between her legs and the effect is instantaneous.

She tightens her legs and arches her chest, focused on finding her pleasure.

He sits up straighter and wraps her in his arms, searing her lips to his in a blatant sign of possession. He wants to claim her. The notion of anyone else having her makes him feel unadulterated rage.

Their tongues twine with a furious passion. She clenches against him and he knows he won't last. He works his fingers faster and feels the triumphant joy of victory when he feels her fracture in his arms, but all that squeezing and shuddering doesn't help his control in the slightest, and he's following her soon after.

He lays her down with surprising tenderness in his urgency and gets in several strokes before he loses his pace and his mind goes blissfully blank—a mantra of her name on his lips.

When his breathing settles, he's aware of her stroking his back. "Will you stay?" Her chest rises and falls in shallow pants, gradually becoming steadier.

The vulnerability he senses clutches at his heart. He wraps her in his arms and nuzzles her hair, taking all the time to soothe her. It's uncharacteristic of him, he knows. He's not so well-versed in affection, what with the childhood he endured, but that's always been a non-issue with Hermione.

"I meant what I said," he leans down to brush his lips over her temple, "you're _my girl_ , Hermione."

"I've always been your girl."

He nods. "I know. Now I'd like you to be my girl in another sense. I want the world to know—hell, I'll even tell the gossip columns myself, that you belong to me, and—"

"And?"

"I belong to you."

* * *


End file.
